


Hush, Hush

by blacktail



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (?), Anal Sex, Comfort, Dirty Talk, Foreskin Play, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail/pseuds/blacktail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q: Quartermaster, quaking...quiet. Bond finds a different challenge than he'd expected in their sex life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush, Hush

                It’s the break in a heat wave when Bond gets Q up against a wall with a knee between his legs. He has his hands in Q’s hair, messier now than ever, and pulls. Q’s mouth opens, and his gasp is quiet but his face is intense. Bond tosses his glasses, and before the quartermaster can bitch about almost crippling near-sightedness, kisses him crushingly. He worries about blood for a moment when Q’s nails rake his scalp, and it hits him like a punch.

                He’s hard as metal and Q is pulling his tie off, kissing him needily. The only noises are breathing and wet, quiet little grunts from Bond as Q hits checkpoints. Tie, off. Shirt, unbuttoned. Bond just takes him apart, removes the buttons off of Q’s short-sleeved, collared, two-breast-pocketed shirt before removing the shirt himself. He attaches his mouth properly at the junction of neck and shoulder, and feels Q arch under him. Long inhale. No moan. He’ll have to make a better effort. He bites up Q’s neck, back down, and palms him through his wrinkled trousers. Eager, and hard. Skinny hips push into his hand and Q drops his belt, opens his pants, and gets shuffled back toward the bed for his effort.

                With Q on his back, legs open, wearing nothing except for a blush and sweat, James attacks him with his mouth. All of the sensitive points of the human body. Ribs. Stomach. Hips, thighs. He pushes Q’s leg back holds it, and sucks behind his knee. The young (too young for someone like Bond) man squirms almost in distress, pants like he’s been punched in the guy, and fists the sheets. No moans. Not even a whine.

                Bond mouths Q’s prick, holds him and slips his tongue inside of Q’s foreskin to tongue his slit. When that only ears a high, wet inhale, an almost hurt sound, is when he starts expecting something is off. He knows when people are being quiet, when they’re pretending to be detached from the act and go someplace else. Q is right there with him, storm cloud eyes dilated and pink mouth helplessly open, but even his breathing is comparatively quiet. Bond swallows him and watches while Q bucks and twitches on James’s sheets. Not a peep.

                For all that there’s something off about it, it does inspire James to work harder still.

                He has three fingers inside of Q, the man’s thighs spread and quivering, a sheen of sweat down his back, and he rocks back onto Bond’s fingers. Toes curl and head drops when Bond fingers his sweet spot, but no sound.

                James knows he’s willing and eager.

                James knows his vocal chords are in perfect working order.

                James doesn’t know why this is one of the quietest fucks he’s ever had, with a man he’d expected to be a mouthy screamer.

                He gets a whimper when he grabs Q’s hips and pushes in. Teeth and tongue lathe and lap and suck and bite at Q’s shoulders, but when he pulls out and _slams in_ hard enough to rock them forward, he still only gets a choked little whimper. Frustration and arousal flare up together in him and he takes Q’s hand, twines their fingers together, and braces them against his headboard. Each and every thrust is hard, shaking, focused on Q, and still all he gets is strained panting. It makes him growl, it makes _him_ more vocal.

                His quartermaster’s body feels perfect under him, around him, squeezing him tight. Q is shaking and rutting back against him, head thrown back or dropped down between his shoulders from one moment to the next. Dark hair is mussed and plastered to his forehead. His fingers tighten in Bond’s, his entire body tightens, and he wraps a hand around himself for a couple of quick strokes.

                “C-coming—” He mutters, and presses his face into the bedding. Bond pulls his head up by the hair and all that comes out is a stifled, rough, low moan.

                “God damnit,” he mutters, and pulls Q around. He sits against the headboard and grunts as he pulls out, pulling Q around and against his chest and shocking his over-stimulated body. Q leans against him, clutching him tight and digging nails into his shoulders. Bond bounces him, and damn if it isn’t one of the most beautiful things when Q’s head falls back, mouth open, the perfect silent image of enthralled pleasure.

                James can’t figure it out, and he’s too busy thinking to get off.

                He drops Q against the blankets and presses his muscles against Q’s light frame, puts their hands together, hitches Q’s knees over Bond’s elbows and kisses his neck. He takes it slow, blood boiling.

                “Where’s your voice? Come on now. I see your face.”

                “James, I—can’t—”

                “Can’t what? Speak up. Come on. Come _on_ , _damnit!_ ” He fucks him again, Q jolts and makes some tiny sound. He looks distressed now, though, and that’s never what Bond wanted. He sits up and rocks his hips, punishing little thrusts, riding Q’s sweet spot so that the man is almost dry sobbing. James strokes him, rubs his tip and makes Q flail until he’s hard again, then plants a hand beside his head and fucks him staring at him. He doesn’t ask for any other sounds. He drops his head to Q’s shoulder and enjoys it. There’s more than enough feedback. Q’s toes curling against the backs of his thighs, bony knees pressing against his hips, the wet slapping sound of their bodies together.

                He makes Q come again, whispering dirty in his ear and wanking him ( _“Too young to’ve ever been fucked like this. Whatever you’ve had before, I can see this is the best. Brilliant little Quartermaster with such a wonderfully tight ass. You feel exceptional. No one knows what they’re missing, holding you down and having a nice shag with the twink in brainy specs. …beautiful.”_ ). He looks ruined and debauched, splayed out and panting quietly until Bond presses his knees back and lays into him hard enough to shake his bed. It’s desperation and pride all at once, and he’s never had a lay this complicated, even when there were international interests at stake.

                Q grabs his hair and tugs and that’s it, he’s done, he pushes down and in and he comes hard enough that his mind spins. His hands tighten than loosen, all of his considerable muscle mass turns to jelly and he falls into Q (quartermaster, Quinn, quiet, quaking). They kiss, messy and hot, working for the oxygen in the room. James stares and strokes his hair, rubbing his cheek with a thumb.

                “Won’t open your eyes now, either? That’s not progress.”

                It’s the wrong thing to say and Q glares at him. Not a lazy concession of a jab, but a little deep actual hurt before he covers it up again. Bond’s not the only one with a poker face, he sees it fall in place.

                “No, no, shh.”

                “I thought that was the problem,” Q growls, and shoves on Bond’s shoulder, which the agent accommodates. He tries to hold his side and keep him in place.

                “Don’t,” he orders.

                Q lays face-down on the sheets, too spent and pliant to really flee. Bond pulls the genius against his chest, strokes the sparse hair near his navel and caresses his almost concave stomach.

                “It was very good,” Q assures him. Now, his volume is normal, as if they were discussing an evaluation across a desk at MI6.

                “I could tell,” Bond chuckles, stubble brushing behind Q’s ear and making him shudder.

                “I can’t help it.”

                “Everyone has their quirks.”

                Q shrugs slightly and Bond kisses the back of his neck. They smell like sweat and he can pick up his cologne on Q’s skinny body. It makes his limp cock twitch just so.

                “I was in a home with other people, after my mum passed.”

                Bond nods. These stories deserve solemnity. He provides it, and a strong, solid mass for Q to draw support from.

                “I learned to be very quiet. Especially when another of the boys and I…had a fling, sort of. Teenagers snogging and feeling each other up. But we had to be silent, and neither of us wanted anyone to know we were…like that. You know how kids are, when they find something to rag on.”

                Bond doesn’t, but he nods, imagining Q means ‘cruel.’

                “So you clam up as a nervous reaction.”

                “As a trained response, really. I start to feel stressed if I get too loud. And if people find out, now, about us…. It’s similar.”

                “No. It’s fine.” James strokes his back and sides, kisses the red bruises left by his mouth, and Q’s pale shoulder. “I’ve seen weirder.”

                Q snorts indignantly and rolls over to face James, still a little flushed, or maybe blushing. He looks older without the glasses, and Bond examines his face. So neutral, given away only by little ticks of emotion at the edges of his features. He kisses James, and the agent responds quite gladly. Months— _months—_ of tension, ribbing, back-and-forths, and the occasional top secret snog at headquarters. The sound of silence hasn’t ruined the experience. It’s made it memorable. All the same, he intends to wean Q of the habit. Any conditioned response can face extinction.

                “Care to go again?” he asks, smirk dancing on his lips, the barest hint of teeth. Q stares at him. He tries to figure if he has the stamina for a third time, and stops figuring when Bond gets his mouth on him again. Q sighs, catches himself, and smiles at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, and settles hands on Bond’s head. Maybe he’ll be able to stomach a whine or two, because all of the wonderful lusty things Bond whispered in his ear are true, and if anyone has proved that old dogs can learn new tricks, it’s James.

                Three collective orgasms later seems like a good waypoint for the first-name basis, anyway.


End file.
